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poems

taking a short trip to scotland


being dead is kind of fun

now

i can shoot

willy wonka patterns from my

fingertips onto the

concrete

as i’m walking along to pop

white cords. security. oh that synth riff sure surprised me this time.

well fuck

if my sweater tilts just

the right way

nothing can go wrong



three birds one stone


you called me and we

talked of stolen lives

i said that

i felt rather sad for the girl

who could only fit into secondhand jeans

and then you did that

also

so i was on the stoop again

and your cigarette smoke curled out the door

and then i was thinking about inside and outside

and then i opened my notebook

and then i was thinking about outside and inside

and then i closed my notebook

and then

i called someone else

probably the better choice



problems with my friend james


when i sit down in the subway

other people

choose not to sit

by my side

when i’m sitting in the subway

i stare across

and that woman behind newspaper

sees me and

leaves

to get back at these people

when there are two benches

i sit alone



staring at the dirty laundry


the last tear i remember was

at breakfast three

months ago

it had two sisters and

maybe a brother

and then the eraser keeps coming

like a taxi

like a taxi

oh lord

please let me recall

where my socks were last week

i want to be whole again

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